The Battle

Erel currently lay on the bed. The room assigned to him was quite small, almost like a capsule. Its white, nearly metallic walls closed around him, the single bed propped against a steel frame, a lone cupboard sitting in the corner. Everything was minimal with only the most basic necessities provided, yet here in the middle of the breach zone, even this felt like an untold luxury.
He stared up at the ceiling, steeling himself, gathering his thoughts as he prepared to enter the trial. Deep down, he was tired, more than he ever let show in front of Lyra. The bluebeard plane, the piper, the endless travels, the gruelling training; all of it had finally caught up to him, exhaustion gnawing at his mind. Each day brought new confusion: the ordeal with the Bluebeard plane made less sense as time passed, but he had resolved to keep moving forward, to carve out a place for himself in this almost consumed world.
He focused on the subtle buzzing of the imaginarium in the back of his mind, letting its rhythm ground him. He allowed himself to drift into that familiar sensation, the suction pulling his consciousness away, everything around him dissolving into darkness.
When he blinked again, that same old feeling washed over him. He was back inside his soul chamber. Nothing ever changed here, no matter how many times he entered. The chamber stood in its perpetual dark glory, bathed in a pale light that seemed to come from nowhere at all. Three great pillars surrounded him like silent sentinels, the runes carved into them shining with a strange brilliance.
He turned and looked up. There it was, the serpent that coiled around the hollow dome at the top, finally completing its circle as its fangs bit into its own tail. The figure was ominous, its scales obsidian black, glimmering with a faint pulse of light, making Erel wonder if the serpent was dead or alive.
He could feel it pulsing inside him. His single core was filled to the brim with all the flux it could hold. Every anomalite was connected to the imaginarium through a core. The core was what tuned the suspended imaginarium in the air into flux, fuelling every ability an anomalite possessed. It acted as both converter and reservoir, steadily replenishing reserves when depleted. But while replenishment was automatic, true enhancement required something more, a purer source of imaginarium to nourish and strengthen the core. This only happened with the residual imaginarium released by entities upon their death, or when paradox planes dissolved. This made it essential for anomalites to keep fighting, to keep growing stronger.
Only when a core reached its maximum could an anomalite challenge the next trial within their soul, hoping to ascend, grow a new core, get one new ability on each of the three pillars, and repeat the cycle again.
He glanced at the distant door, which always remained closed, except now, it stood wide open. Upon its surface was the ouroboros, eternally biting its tail, and beyond the threshold, only liquid darkness beckoned.
Well, here goes nothing. What’s the worst that can happen? At most, I become a fissure…
There was much at stake, though. Becoming a fissure was a fate worse than death. An anomalite who failed to clear a trial was shattered, their fragments torn out, leaving only partial myth synchronisation. They lost the humanity within them, becoming slaves to whatever vice their mythic connection forced upon them. They were often thought of as entities, the only difference being that they thought like humans, often making them much more dangerous.
Steeling himself, Erel stepped forward, passing through the open door and into the darkness. Instantly, the shadows felt alive, blanketing him from all sides, pulling him in with a forceful, almost greedy suction. Drowsiness crashed over him like a wave, his vision darkening, consciousness slipping away. As he lost himself entirely, he knew the trial had begun.
***
Erel’s eyes snapped open, and the metallic scent of blood and grime settled on his nose. He felt a deep exhaustion in his muscles, his body aching as he realised he was lying on a bed, if it could even be called that. Comfort was the last thing this place provided.
As his senses cleared, he took in his surroundings. He seemed to be inside a tent, spartan and threadbare. The dust-covered cloth barely clung to the ground, offering only the most meagre shelter. A bedroll, rough and thin, was spread on the earth beneath him; another lay nearby, unoccupied. Erel stared, bewildered, at the setting he found himself in. He was wearing rags, a tunic, stained and worn, covered by almost-decrepit armour, its corners tinged with dried blood. By the tent’s entrance, a simple yet elegant sword rested against the ground, its blade gleaming faintly in the shadows.
‘A soldier?’
Trials were infamous for thrusting anomalites into entire preexisting narratives, forcing them to inhabit the roles of other people rather than themselves. This was a key difference from paradox planes. Instead of driving the story, they became a part of it, swept along by whatever demand the trial imposed.
His thoughts whirled as he tried to piece together his surroundings. Suddenly, a deafening trumpet blast split the air, so loud it seemed to rattle the tent itself. The sound vibrated through his body, like the bugle marking the start of battle, only this was magnified a hundredfold.
The blast faded, but its impact lingered. Almost immediately, chaos erupted outside: the shouting of orders, the thudding of countless footsteps, the clatter of armour and weapons. The entire camp was alive with the anticipation and terror of an imminent battle.
‘I’m a soldier in a war. Christ.’
Erel stirred, hesitating as he sat up. He wasn’t eager to leave the tent, but before he could decide what to do, the flap was thrown open and a figure burst inside, a tall, imposing woman whose exasperated breath seemed to fill the space.
“Didn’t you hear the horn, soldier? On your feet, now!” she barked. Her face was hard, a deep scar running down one cheek, short blonde hair framing her features, not quite reaching her jaw. Her posture radiated strength, and Erel sensed there was even more power hidden beneath the surface. But more than that, he felt it, the familiar hum of imaginarium in the air around her.
‘An anomalite.’
He scrambled to his feet, grabbing the sword from the ground. The cold handle felt reassuring in his grip, his hand fitting snugly around it. Without a word, he followed the woman outside, stepping abruptly into chaos.
All around, soldiers raced in every direction, shouting and yelling, filling the air. Some men and women scrambled to don their armour, and others desperately searched for missing weapons beneath lantern-lit darkness. The pale moonlight offered the only reprieve from the thick shadows, broken only by a scattering of fire-lit torches. Tents, thousands of them, stretched across the hillside in a haphazard sprawl. The sheer scale of the camp made Erel’s breath catch in his throat.
He followed the woman, knowing instinctively that the trial’s narrative began with her. As he hurried behind, he couldn’t help but bump into other bodies, mud clinging to his boots with each step. The scale of the coming battle was staggering, making it clear that he was caught in the middle of a full-blown war.
Soon, the tents gave way to a massive clearing. There, lines upon lines of soldiers stood, stretching as far as the eye could see. Some gripped spears, holding the vanguard; others manned the front with swords and shields. Archers clustered on the natural high ground at the back. Every face looked grim, as if each person knew death was near, as they had all just been woken by the bugle mid-sleep, but not one showed signs of fleeing, as though they’d all prepared to make their final stand tonight.
Taking in the sight, Erel realised the truth: the armour, the weapons, the entire setting, it was ancient, a world long gone, far removed from his own timeline.
Among the crowd, he noticed certain soldiers who stood apart. Their armour was more polished, their weapons finer, and they held positions of clear authority at the front. Yet the one thing they all shared was a shimmering aura of imaginarium, a protective grace that set them apart from the rest.
The woman who had led him through the camp now strode in front of the battalion, shoulders squared, hands clasped behind her back. It was obvious she was their leader, and Erel was one of her soldiers.
He scanned the army, amazed by the sheer size and organisation. Row after row of fighters, divided into smaller battalions, each commanded by an anomalite. The scale was both awe-inspiring and terrifying.
‘What could possibly require such an army?’ Erel wondered, not sure he wanted to find out.
A tap on his shoulder startled him. He turned to see a timid boy, about his own age, looking up at him with wide, uncertain eyes. The boy’s hands trembled, fear written across his face.
“H-hi, I’m Torik…” the boy mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Erel,” he replied with a curt nod.
“Do you think we’ll survive today?” Torik asked, not quite meeting his gaze, his eyes fixed somewhere far away.
“Who knows about everyone else? I know I will,” Erel answered, a confident grin on his face. Torik’s eyes widened in surprise, then suddenly morphed to be filled with even deeper fear.
That was when the ground beneath them began to tremble, a deep rumbling rolling through the earth as if the world itself was holding its breath. All at once, the entire army seemed to fall silent, bracing for what was to come.
In the distance, Erel finally saw it. The ground before them shook, dust clouds rising into the night sky. Something dark and massive pooled outwards, spreading like liquid shadow. As it drew closer, its true shape became clear.
‘Fucking abominations!’
A horde, if it could even be called that, charged toward them, thousands upon thousands of entities surging forward in a frenzy. There were jet-black wolves, their fur merging with the darkness, monstrous beasts with iron teeth and hulking bodies like bears, only more vicious, more twisted. Humanoid forms appeared too, their limbs mutated, bodies warped into grotesque figures that resembled corpses. The enemy was a living nightmare, every creature worse than the last, and together they poured across the land, their arrival marking the army’s doom.
As the abominations advanced, the air thickened with the pulse of imaginarium, as if reality itself strained not to collapse under their presence. Soldiers around him murmured final prayers, some trembling, others fainting outright after seeing what awaited them. The anomalite leaders gripped their weapons tighter, cursing under their breath, ready to lead their battalions in one desperate, doomed stand.
Erel, however, wasn't naïve; he understood with brutal clarity what awaited them all.
Inescapable death.
‘We’re fucked!’

Chapter end